


into you

by medicinedrunk



Series: so into you [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Art Student Zayn, Baker Harry, Business Student Harry, Drinking, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:22:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24068047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medicinedrunk/pseuds/medicinedrunk
Summary: Zayn is getting a tattoo on his ribs. Harry holds his hand to comfort him. The tattoo artist comes to the wrong conclusion about their relationship. Only, maybe that conclusion isn't so far off.
Relationships: Zayn Malik/Harry Styles
Series: so into you [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1989007
Comments: 37
Kudos: 192





	1. abstract

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first ever fic. I hope y'all enjoy it! Thank you to the wonderful Kennedy for helping with this.
> 
> Inspired by [this](https://zanyandharried.tumblr.com/post/617393111067426816/so-i-just-went-with-my-buddy-while-he-got-a-rib) post.

The steady buzzing is mixing with the city sounds coming from the open windows, cars and chatter floating up from the street below, birds chirping and the cool fall air ruffling the trees. The early afternoon sun is casting buttery squares of light over the concrete floor, the walls, and the tidy rows of work stations lining either side of the large loft space, one for each tattoo artist.

Zayn’s lying shirtless on the bed at one of the stations by the windows, his skin glowing and golden in the sunlight. It hurts to look at him sometimes, Harry thinks, a squirming discomfort or pang of desire tightening his chest every so often. And if that’s not a totally platonic and normal feeling to have about your (very much straight) best mate, well… he’s just pretty, isn’t he?

He grimaces as the tattoo artist makes another line in the flower he’s getting on his ribs. Zayn’s got loads of tattoos, is probably used to the sensation by now, but the ribs are especially painful, and Harry can tell that he’s struggling to keep his cool.

“Stop being a baby,” he teases, but reaches over and grabs his hand, because he’s a supportive friend. Zayn grumbles but holds on tight, squeezing almost painfully every time the artist makes another line.

He listens and hums attentively as Harry rambles about the café he wants to check out later and his new yoga routine and why he thinks Remus and Sirius were definitely a thing, even though J.K. Rowling would never write it. The artist keeps glancing over at him as he talks. Which, like, he should be more focused on his work, Harry thinks.

And then Harry realizes what he’s looking at – the knit rainbow bracelet around his wrist, the fondness in his voice as he talks to Zayn, distracting him, the way he’s massaging his forearm to comfort him – and what he must be thinking.

“So, are you two close?” he asks, right as the realization dawns on Harry.

“Of course, that’s why I brought him,” Zayn answers, grinning at Harry, totally oblivious to the implication or the way Harry’s brain is currently short-circuiting. _Honestly_. Fucking straight boys.

“Cool mate. Good for you,” the artist says.

Harry stays quiet, freaking out internally as he tries to figure out _what to do_. Does he correct the artist? Let Zayn know? Let go of his hand? Not a fucking chance. It seems like the only option is to resign himself to his fate, and hope the artist doesn’t say anything else.

“Can I get some water?” Zayn asks, after a bit, and the artist agrees, walking off and coming back with a bottle for him.

He takes a large gulp, lips puckered against the mouth of the bottle, knocking his head back so his throat’s exposed, and Harry can’t help staring at the way his Adam’s apple moves. God, he needs to get a grip.

The artist doesn’t say anything, but he’s watching and Harry’s sure his eyes are laughing at him. He thought this was going to be a nice, chill afternoon after his dreary Monday morning classes, but _clearly_ he’s being punished for something instead. He’s not going to survive the rest of this appointment, or get to try the macaroons he’d heard about from that café, that he’d been saving to check out with Zayn. It's tragic, really.

When he’s done drinking, Zayn hands him the bottle and he takes it, thinking he just needs Harry to hold it for him since he’s got to lie down.

“Harry, drink some water,” Zayn says, and, _oh_.

His brain short-circuits again. Because, _obviously_ , sharing a drink confirms the tattoo artist’s assumption. Now he _knows_ he’s right, Harry thinks desperately. And Zayn is still annoyingly, blissfully unaware of the sitcom-worthy drama Harry’s currently living.

He stares at the honey-coloured wood ceilings as he takes a grudging sip from the water bottle, and listens as Zayn tells the artist about some of the other tattoos he wants to get.

“I’m getting a new one next month, too,” Harry finally chimes in, shaking out his jaw-length hair before tying half of it in a topknot. “It’s gonna be a birdcage… on my rib cage,” he finishes, making little jazz hands that get Zayn to snort.

“Yeah, I’m gonna go and hold his hand for that one,” he jokes.

“I mean, I should hope so,” the tattoo artist says, all matter-of-factly. And that’s it, Harry’s having a _full-blown coronary_. He’s reconsidering all of the life choices that lead him to this ridiculous situation.

But Zayn just laughs and moves on, grimacing again as the artist makes another line. Harry instinctively grabs his hand again in comfort, and he squeezes back.

~

He survived, and they’re here, and these macaroons are amazing, Harry thinks, as he sinks his teeth into the giant blueberry lavender cookie for another bite. He groans, closing his eyes to savour the taste and the spongy interior.

When he opens them again, Zayn is grinning fondly at him.

“Always eating with your tongue, Haz. It’s filthy,” he teases, shaking his head. And, well. If Harry chokes a bit on his mouthful, Zayn’s polite enough not to comment. Though not polite enough not to steal the rest of his macaroon apparently, popping the whole thing into his mouth in one shot.

“Heeey,” Harry pouts, giving him his best puppy dog eyes. Zayn just smirks, but slides the rest of his own macaroon, strawberry lemon, over onto Harry’s plate.

“Wanted to share, babe,” he says, eyes crinkling. Not fair.

“Sure you did,” Harry grumbles, staring into his coffee to hide his blush.

“Harry, eat the macaroon.” He looks up and Zayn’s staring at him, face serious. _Oh_.

Zayn giving him commands and taking care of him might be a bit of a turn on for Harry, or a lot, but that’s a secret he’ll die with. God, he _really_ needs to get a grip.

He’s fully, totally straight, Harry reminds himself. Never given any indication otherwise and probably never will. So pining is totally pointless.

He realizes he’s just been staring at Zayn for way too long now, who’s just been staring back, and he probably thinks it's getting weird, so Harry grabs the macaroon, sticking his tongue out to draw the pastry into his mouth. He chews a bit and groans, and Zayn’s face breaks into a grin.

“Fuck, this is good.”

“Aren’t you glad I shared?” Zayn teases.

“You only shared it with me cuz you fell for the pout. It’s _irresistible_.”

“It sure is, babe,” Zayn says, after a moment, lips quirking up a bit, joking. Harry gulps down the bite of cookie he just took, doing his utmost not to choke again.

“What’s your day like tomorrow? You’ve got drawing in the morning, right,” he gets out quickly, trying to be casual about the subject change. Zayn crinkles his eyes at him.

“Ya. I was gonna spend some time in the studio after to work on my term project, if you wanna come keep me company,” he says, lilting up at the end in question, eyes wide and lips pouted. The truth is, Harry has absolutely nothing on Zayn’s puppy dog eyes, and no means to defend himself against them. Not fair at all.

“Sure. I can bring my textbook and get some studying done,” he says, as evenly as he can muster.

Being Zayn’s friend is amazing, seeing him is always the best part of his day, if he’s being honest, but it’s also probably going to kill him, he thinks, as he takes a long drag of his coffee.

~

Zayn’s dark hair is pulled back from his face with a toothed hair band and his stubble has grown in, accentuating his killer jawline and leading Harry’s mind in an unsafe direction. Images of beard burn on his own, nearly hairless cheeks and thighs and – no. Unsafe. But that’s not what really gets him anyway.

Because Zayn is wearing a crop top, his tight abs and happy trail on full display, and his jeans hung low off his hips, exposing his dark briefs and the black heart he has on his hip. Harry wants to suck on it, wants to follow that happy trail with his lips, wants to – get a _grip_.

He drags his eyes back up to safer territory and finds Zayn smirking at him, like he knows exactly what Harry’s thinking, and he’s amused and smug about it and apparently the trials are not done coming.

Harry wants to crumble into a pitiful heap. To be carried to bed, and nursed back to health by Zayn’s tongue, ideally, and _how_ can he be this horny when he got himself off just this morning? Granted, the subject of his fantasies is standing right in front of him, looking like sex on a dish, but still.

“Hey,” he finally says, getting closer to give Zayn a hug.

“Hey, babe,” Zayn answers, pulling him in firmly. Harry holds on for a moment longer than maybe he should, but Zayn doesn’t move either.

When they disentangle, Harry sets his bag down on the worktable next to the easel Zayn’s working at. From this close, he can see splatters of different colours of paint across Zayn’s cheeks and arms and abdomen, and, well, that’s something else to think about, isn’t it?

“What are you working on?” he asks, gesturing at the large canvas propped up on the easel, as he tries to regain some composure and control of the situation. He’s genuinely interested though, as he inspects the swirls of green and gold and pink and brown, still just a thin coat that doesn’t fully cover the layer of gesso beneath it.

“I’ve got to represent the same subject using five different art styles for my term project. Started with abstract,” Zayn says, and eagerly starts explaining brushstrokes and colour theory and conveying emotions through abstract.

Harry grins, listening attentively and asking questions, because Zayn is passionate about this, and how can he not be just as excited to talk about it with him, when he feels this overwhelming fondness bubbling up inside him as he watches the other boy’s eyes crinkle happily.

“What’s your subject, then?” he asks, eventually.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Zayn teases, hip checking him where he’s been standing in front of the painting, “before I forget though, I stopped by my place after class and I made us lunch, if you want.”

“You made us lunch?” Harry asks, dumbly.

“Ya, if you want. If you haven’t eaten. You should,” he goes on, as Harry blinks at him, bemused.

“Of course, ya. I’d love lunch. Thanks, Zayn,” Harry says, recovering a bit. Zayn beams at him and heads over to his bag to grab what he made. He puts a brown paper bag down in front of Harry, before pulling out a couple of sandwiches, cut up carrots, cookies, a banana, and a water bottle.

“The sandwiches are turkey. Like, it’s not much,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, accentuating his upper arm and his extended rib cage, the skin around the new tattoo still a little tender-looking.

“Babe, no! This is so nice,” Harry says, instead of sweet, because that would be flirting, which he’s _not_. “It’s like a picnic! You had all this at your place?” he asks, skeptically. Zayn and Louis live pretty much exclusively off of takeout, Harry knows.

“I stopped by the store last night to get some stuff,” Zayn concedes. _Oh_.

Fuck. He can’t cope with this. Zayn’s a doting brother, Harry reminds himself, even if he’s always bickering with his sisters. He likes taking care of the people he cares about. _That’s_ what this thoughtful gesture is about, nothing more.

“Come on, let’s eat it on the table,” he says, covering up his inner turmoil with a playful grin as he tugs Zayn’s arm and climbs up onto the surface, settling down cross-legged. Zayn laughs but follows him up, their knees pressing together as they sit face to face. “See? Just like a picnic.”

“Ya, it is,” Zayn agrees, eyes crinkling sweetly at Harry, indulging him as always.

They chat about their work for the rest of the week, and the documentary Harry watched the night before, and they tease each other and laugh as they eat, grossing Zayn out when Harry talks with his mouth full.

He could spend every day like this, Harry thinks, and be totally satisfied. Or nearly.

Harry’s always been a people person, craved attention and activity like oxygen. But Zayn’s attention is so intense, so indulgent and focused, it settles something inside of Harry, like he hardly needs anyone else to feel grounded, like he can be still with him.

“I should really get back to work,” Zayn says, sliding down from the table once they’ve finished all the food, except for the banana, which Zayn said was for Harry and he’s saving for later, when he needs a break from studying.

“Ya, I should study,” Harry admits, climbing down as well, although far less gracefully, making Zayn snort. Really, he’d much rather listen to Zayn laugh at him and talk all afternoon. Or even just watch the light change in his eyes and on his skin, as the day passes by.

They settle into comfortable silence as Harry sprawls himself out over the work table and Zayn picks up his palette. Harry pours over his microeconomics textbook, scratching down notes and occasionally peaking at Zayn, who stares intently at his painting, swishing his brush over the canvas in steady motions, pausing every so often to take a step back and evaluate his progress.

Eventually though, Harry gets sucked into his reading, making sure he understands and remembers everything. A degree in business made a lot more sense in theory, Harry thinks. The classes can be a bit dry for his taste, and the exams are brutal. But his dream is to open a bakery, and he already has the baking part down, it’s the keeping a small business afloat part he’s less sure about.

“Haz,” Zayn says, squeezing Harry’s shoulder to get his attention, his face mere inches away when Harry turns to look up at him. “The sun is setting. We should head out.” Harry blinks, needing a moment to resituate himself.

“Ya, okay. I don’t think I could bear to read another sentence of this anyway,” he replies, starting to put away his things. Zayn snorts, and ruffles his hair affectionately.

“Do you wanna come over? Louis wants to order pizza.”

“Sure.” Of course he wants to, Harry thinks, would never pass up a chance to spend more time with Zayn. He’s in too deep. “Are you going to tell me what your painting’s about?” he asks, watching Zayn clean up his materials and put the canvas out of the way to dry.

“I don’t actually know. It’s more just like, a feeling that I had, and I wanted to capture it. I guess I’ll have to figure it out for the other pieces.” Harry hums in response, looking at where the unfinished work is resting.

“Well, whatever it is, I love it already.”

“Thanks, babe.”


	2. graffiti

Harry doesn’t know exactly when his feelings for Zayn started to change.

Maybe it was around the time Harry started feeling an inexplicable wash of relief every time Zayn would reject a girl flirting with him when they were out, opting to stay with him and the lads instead of getting off with a stranger. Or the anxious, tight skin, squirming chest sensation he would get when Zayn did go off with some bird he’d chatted up at the bar.

Or maybe it was even earlier than that, when Zayn stayed up all night with him, winter of their first year when Harry had broken up with his high school boyfriend, because their universities were hours apart and long distance wasn’t working. Zayn fed him chocolate and whiskey and hugged him when he cried, and they talked for hours, sprawled out in Harry’s bed in their underwear.

The sun had been coming up by the time they fell asleep, flushing the sky pink and bathing the room in soft light, and it was high up in the sky when Harry woke up hours later, with Zayn spooning him.

He was so comfortable, tangled together warmly under the covers, but he’d extricated himself from Zayn’s grip and gotten up before the other boy could wake, just in case spooning in their underwear was the line for Zayn, and they’d crossed it.

Maybe his feelings for Zayn have never been purely platonic, if he’s really being honest, if the way he was left speechless on Orientation Day is any indication, when one of the prettiest boys he’d ever seen had walked into Harry’s dorm room and told him they were roommates.

Harry was mesmerized by his dark, silky hair that curled a bit at the tips, his stubbly jawline, the tattoos covering his arms and peeking out from the loose collar that exposed his clavicles, the crinkles in eyes when he smiled, and the way his tongue poked out between his teeth when he laughed. And, god, his _cheekbones_.

It had taken a while for Harry to get used to just how attractive Zayn was, but he figured it was just that. Attraction. He knew Zayn was straight, and Harry had a boyfriend anyway, so nothing was going to happen, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate how beautiful, and _hot_ his roommate was.

And besides that, Zayn was _funny_ too. And nerdy, and kind, and warm, and smart. He was one of the loveliest people Harry had ever met. He was more than happy just to be around the other boy, just to be his friend.

He still is, Harry thinks. Still so pretty and so lovely, and Harry is still so happy just to be his friend, just to be around him. And maybe he was stupid for not reading more into his feelings for Zayn. Because he also knows that he’s never felt like this about anyone before.

Like he wants to spend every spare moment together, because it’s easy. Like the other boy’s absence leaves an ache in his skin, while his presence leaves him settled. Like he might give up everything if Zayn asked him to, just to stay near him, even though he knows the other boy would never ask that of him, is far too thoughtful and supportive to ever diminish, or limit Harry.

He didn’t feel like this about his high school boyfriend, though they’d been together for over two years. He certainly didn’t feel like this about any of his casual relationships or hookups in the last couple of years. No, this is completely new territory for him.

And _that’s_ terrifying, Harry thinks, as they make their way back to Zayn and Louis’ flat. Because Zayn is _straight_ , so these big, new feelings that Harry has will never be reciprocated. And on top of _that_ , Zayn is his best friend, the person he turns to for support and comfort and everything, the most important person in his life besides his family. He can’t fuck that up. Can’t lose him.

“Haz,” Zayn says softly, bumping their shoulders together as they walk. “What evil thoughts have got you frowning like that? … I’ll fight them for you. I’m a superhero, you know,” he teases, and Harry knows what he’s trying to do. Trying to distract him, trying to make him smile, and _damn_ him, because it works.

Harry can’t help the amusement that tugs at his lips, and really, why would he want to, when it’s Zayn trying to comfort him. Zayn taking care of him, as always, because that’s what he does.

“It’s nothing. Just stressed about midterms,” he says.

Zayn hums, frowning like he knows that’s not what it is at all, but he lets him have his lie.

~

Zayn unlocks the door and ushers Harry into the flat ahead of him.

“Harold!” Louis exclaims, from where he’s perched on the back of the couch in the main living area. Liam is seated properly next to him, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, trying to focus on the video game they’re playing while Louis tries to distract him by kicking and shoving at his side. He just grumbles in greeting, attention never leaving the television.

Zayn shuts the door behind them, crowding into Harry, who rushes to toe off his boots and move away, putting space between them as Zayn in turn takes off his sneakers. He can’t be that close to the other boy right now, and manage to keep his cool in front of the lads as well.

Niall comes padding out from the kitchen holding a bag of crisps, calling out a greeting just as Louis crows gleefully, throwing his fists in the air victoriously as Liam curses.

“We already ordered the pizza,” Niall tells them, over the sounds of the tussle happening on the couch. “Shouldn’t be too long now,” he adds, coming in to give Harry a one-armed hug and offering him the bag of crisps.

Harry digs around for a handful and pops it all in his mouth, flinching when Zayn flicks his cheek in passing. He throws a shit-eating grin at Harry over his shoulder, as he walks towards the hallway that holds his and Louis’ bedrooms and the bathroom.

“I’m gonna go shower off this paint,” he calls after himself.

“Did you two lovebirds have a nice study date, then?” Louis asks, now sitting on top of Liam, while Liam tries to shake him off with the air of resignation. “You should have seen the spread Zayn prepared for them,” Louis tells the other lads, grinning wickedly. “Domestic _bliss_.”

Harry is spared responding because Liam lurches aggressively at that moment, and Louis yelps as he’s sent sprawling to the floor. This prompts another round of roughhousing, with Niall cackling and kicking at them from where he’s flopped down on one side of the couch, eating crisps unbothered.

Which, like, _thank you_ Liam, Harry thinks, because it means no one notices the intense blush that’s heating up all his cheeks and ears and neck, making him look a little too suspicious probably. They would never stop giving him shit for that.

They finally settle down when the doorbell rings, Louis jumping up to go pay for the pizza, while Liam grabs them all beers (and an apple cider for Harry) from the kitchen. Zayn also re-emerges in a timely fashion, summoned by the smell of hot food.

He’s dressed in trackies and a white tank top, hair still wet and falling in thick locks around his face, skin still dewy with moisture. He looks amazing, casual and cozy, and Harry wants to burrow into his chest and nap there, can picture spending countless lazy Sundays like that, exchanging soft kisses and only getting out of bed to get food, or to crowd into the shower together… 

He’s snapped back to reality by Louis ribbing him sharply with the corner of the stacked pizza boxes, on his way to put them down on the coffee table.

“Heeey,” he whines. Which is a mistake, because Zayn immediately comes over and throws a protective arm over his shoulders, pressing his hand to the spot Louis hit and rubbing it in soothing circles. He smells fresh, like soap and citrus, and something uniquely _Zayn_ , musky and deep. Harry is so fucked.

They all squeeze in around the coffee table, holding their pizza slices on napkins, Liam and Louis joining Niall on the couch again. Zayn offers Harry the armchair (because of his back, he says) and sits down on the floor beside him, leaning back comfortably, shoulder pressed against Harry’s knee. _Fucked_ , Harry thinks again.

But this is also perfect. A night in with the lads, with Zayn, just laughing and drinking and ribbing each other, blowing off some steam from the stress of upcoming midterms.

It can’t get better than this, he thinks. And he hopes they’re all still going to be mates when they’re older, when university is over and they’re all off doing their own things. He hopes he’ll still have Zayn beside him, caring for him.

~

Harry’s watching him graffiti, and that’s another thing he didn’t know he needed.

Zayn is working on the second piece for his term project, and he asked Harry to come keep him company again, something Harry’s been doing more and more often in the two weeks since that first afternoon, after the tattoo incident, as Harry’s taken to calling it in his head.

“I, like… work better, when you’re around,” Zayn said, the last time they did this. And, well, if that didn’t make Harry melt into a useless puddle at his feet. “Gives me a distraction, when I can just look at your face trying to make sense of all those marketing theories, and have a laugh,” he went on to tease, and that had decidedly helped Harry to cool off again, as he glared at Zayn in mock outrage.

This time, he’d brought Zayn his favourite cookies, which he’d baked with a great deal of care that morning, and Zayn’s whole face had lit up when Harry presented them to him. His eyes crinkled at Harry, full of joy, as he chewed on one enthusiastically, while they sat by the window, the afternoon sun warming their scalps, and that made the early start so worth it.

He knows baking Zayn's favourite treats to bring to him might be considered an act of seduction, the way to a man’s heart and all that, and he doesn’t necessarily do this for all his mates, but he’s a _baker_ , and Zayn just so happens to _love_ his baking… it would be criminal for Harry not to bring him freshly-made treats, he thinks, rather convincingly.

Now though, Zayn is very much focused on his work, his back to Harry. Harry’s midterms ended the week before, so he’s not even studying, just watching Zayn paint without pretext.

The other boy is set up against the wall of the studio, a thick sheet of paper taped up, same size as the canvas for the first piece, with an even larger sheet underneath to catch any spillover. He has several cans of spray paint scattered at his feet, and one of them in his hand, hissing continually as he works.

They’re both wearing masks for the fumes. Zayn is in a cut off tee, showing off his arms and a hint of his ribs, and black skinnies, his hair tucked into a beanie. Harry is in a red plaid, unbuttoned to show off his chest and swallows, and skinnies as well, his hair falling in perfect curls around his face.

He looks good, he thinks. He made sure of it, picking his clothes and styling his hair carefully before he came here, for no reason in particular… he just likes to look good. And he does. Not that Zayn could appreciate it. Not the way Harry can appreciate how Zayn looks right now, so intense and _competent_ and focused.

Where the first piece was just an elaborate mess of interacting colours, this one looks more structured. It’s loosely bisected down the middle, with a similar colour palette as the first piece on one side, green and pink and sunshine yellow, while the other side is a mix of purple and red and tangerine orange. Lines of gold and brown are worked in as well, crossing over and blending the two sides together.

The colours spread out across the whole surface, funny-looking lines and squiggles shooting off in different directions, across blocks of colour, a flaming purple heart in one corner and a sun with a smiley face in another. But the main lines of the piece follow an obvious circuit, the two halves designed to make overlapping circles at the heart of the whole mess, like two cells dividing, or two stars colliding.

“Have you figured out your subject then,” Harry asks, pulling his mask off when Zayn steps back to observe his work, putting down the can he’s been using.

“Kind of, ya,” he answers, pulling off his own mask. “Like… it’s just longing, I guess,” he continues, distractedly, not noticing how Harry’s heart has suddenly started hammering a lot louder, rattling his rib cage nervously.

“Longing for what?” he asks, keeping his voice steady and casual, while fear and jealousy and concern for his friend are all fighting for attention in his chest.

“I just…” Zayn trails off, silent for a moment, before finally turning to face Harry, focusing his attention on him. “I haven’t been in a proper relationship for a while and, I dunno… I guess I just miss it,” he finishes, giving Harry a sheepish smile.

“Oh.” _Oh_.

Harry’s not exactly sure what he’s feeling, everything going kind of numb on the surface, but swirling dangerously underneath. He’s worried that his face is giving something away that he really doesn’t want it to, awkward and unable to school his features when he feels like he’s lost control of himself.

“That’s… I’m sorry, babe,” he finally says, aiming for sympathetic, while the other boy seems to be studying him, and _god_ , Harry really hopes Zayn can’t read him as well as he always seems to. “That sucks. I hope you”–he stalls, taking a shallow breath–“find someone, soon. I–I could set you up? If you want? I wanna help, if I can.”

Zayn just continues to study him, making him shift nervously.

“You do help, Haz,” he says softly, after a moment. “I don’t feel lonely when I’m with you.” And, _fuck_. Harry feels like he’s going to pass out, or cry, hearing Zayn say something like that. “Your presence is just so loud,” he adds, teasing to lighten the tone. And, okay. That’s better. Harry can cope with that. He can accept Zayn’s genuine care and appreciation, without making it more than it is.

“I am delightful company,” he sniffs, before pulling out his most winning grin, getting Zayn to snort. After a pause though, he adds, more sincerely, “I’m glad. That I can make you feel less lonely. You should never have to feel that way.”

Zayn crinkles his eyes at him, and they sparkle in the golden, late afternoon light streaming through the windows of the studio. Or maybe that’s just him, his inherent shine, Harry thinks, and he cringes a bit at his own sappiness, but there it is. He’s really in this.

“Thanks, babe.”


	3. impressionist

Zayn did come to Harry’s tattoo appointment after all, just a little over a month after Zayn’s. And he held his hand, just like he said he would. Which was good – even if Harry could feel the pink on his cheeks like a beacon, announcing his feelings to the world – because the rib cage does actually hurt like hell, if he’s honest, and he was grateful for the comfort Zayn offered him.

He was grateful for the way Zayn’s thumb rubbed slow circles over his palm, and the soothing, bright laugh Zayn let out whenever Harry would pout, either because the other boy was teasing him or because whatever line the artist was making hurt a lot.

Though the latter also tended to result in Zayn squeezing his hand tighter, and petting his forearm nicely with his other hand, so really, Harry didn’t feel like he had that much to complain about.

Fortunately, there was no incident of false assumptions this time around, at least none that the tattoo artist let on too, and Harry was left relatively in peace.

And now they’re eating takeaway falafel on the way back to Harry’s place, to watch Netflix for the rest of the day. And maybe Zayn will crash in his bed, he thinks hopefully, when they’ve stayed up late talking again, and Harry can wake up to his sweet face, soft and angelic in sleep, and make him breakfast before he wakes up… platonically, obviously, because he likes to do nice things for his mates, and Zayn is his _best_ mate…

He shivers, the early November air biting through his too thin layers, and pulls his jacket tighter around himself. Beside him, Zayn reaches out and wraps his arm around Harry’s middle to warm him, grabbing his hipbone like it’s nothing, with the hand that isn’t currently shoving a large bite of falafel pita into his mouth.

Harry genuinely doesn’t know what’s going on anymore, what to do with himself, when Zayn dishes out affection and intimacy so casually, and takes care of him it seems instinctively, and all Harry wants to do is repay it all in turn, with kisses, and naked cuddles in bed, and all the love his flesh and bones have to offer.

He doesn’t know how to cope with muting it for the rest of their lives, only sharing part of everything he feels, only what Zayn can accept.

“Talked to mum this morning,” Zayn says, swallowing down the massive mouthful he’s been chewing. “She says hi.”

“How is she?” he asks, ignoring the warmth flooding his chest at the domesticity of it all, the makings of a lovely relationship dangled before him, where Zayn holds on to him when they walk and Harry is treated like part of the family.

He already gets all that, platonically. He can be content with that.

“Good,” Zayn says, face softening the way it always does when he talks about his family. “She wanted to know if you’d come stay with us for a bit over the winter holidays again. Says you’re more than welcome anytime. Honestly, I think she wants to see you more than she does me,” Zayn teases.

“Well, you should try bringing her freshly baked pastries, and maybe not sassing her so much. It’s not my fault I’m just more likeable,” he retorts, sticking his tongue out, which prompts Zayn to tickle his waist. Harry gasps, and squirms until Zayn relents, grinning smugly as his hand settles back into place on Harry’s hip.

“Nah, what I need are those dimples, and that charm. Could get away with murder,” he says, poking Harry’s cheek with the index of his hand, still holding the pita.

Harry looks away, fighting to repress his pleased smile at the compliments, though he’s already lost that battle with his blushing cheeks, even though he knows Zayn is just teasing him.

“Do you want–like, is it okay with you, if I come stay a bit?” he finally responds. “I know you miss them, I don’t want to intrude on your time together.”

“Babe, no, you’ll just make it better. Promise. I’d miss you too much if I had to wait to get back to see you. And this way I get to have all my favourite people under the same roof,” Zayn assures him, turning his wide, pleading eyes on Harry, and honestly, those should be _illegal_.

“I could come for New Year’s,” Harry says casually, once again ignoring the feelings fluttering aggressively in his chest, though he loses that battle too when Zayn’s face breaks into a happy grin, tongue poking between his teeth and eyes crinkling.

And if the rest of the day goes pretty much exactly like Harry had hoped, well, Zayn has a bad habit of giving him what he wants, whether he knows it or not.

~

For no other reason than to thank him for coming to his tattoo appointment, Harry decides to take Zayn for an actual picnic in the park. It’s a bright, beautiful Sunday, probably one of the last that’ll be nice enough to do this, though even now it’s a tad bit cold, and they both have jackets on. Neither of them has anything else to do for the day though, so they can relax.

Harry packs a thermos of soup he made, which he shoves in his bag along with a couple of blankets, a book, and his camera. Then the two of them go to the store on the way to the park, to get more things to eat. They pick out some cheese and bread together, croissants, and Harry grabs a small pack of ripe-looking strawberries.

Their last stop is for coffee, Zayn getting a large black coffee while Harry opts for a pumpkin spice latte. They sip them the rest of the way to the park, where Harry spreads out one of the blankets and they pull out all the food, before sitting down face to face and throwing the second blanket over their legs, because really, it’s kind of too cold for this.

A pleasant, casual, in no way possibly romantic afternoon with his best friend, or, as Harry's starting to woefully believe, the great, tragic love of his life.

Though he feels guilty for thinking that at all, because is it really so tragic to have someone who understands and loves him, albeit not in the way that he wishes he would? And can he really say things like that when he _has_ Zayn in his life, waiting with open arms, ready to catch him when he needs? Even if it’s not all that he wants it to be, how can he even _think_ that it’s not enough?

Of course, he yearns, he dreams of what it would be like to be together, and he feels his heart breaking a bit with the pressure of how full it is, without another one to pour into, everything in it that he wants to give. But he’s not alone.

“Haz.”

Zayn would never let that happen, Harry thinks, as his eyes find the other boy’s. He doesn’t really know where he’s at with everything, just that he has a lot of conflicting feelings, and it’s hard to breathe around Zayn sometimes but he also feels lighter, so maybe it’s okay.

“What are you thinking?” Zayn prompts again, eyebrows scrunching in concern as he leans in to peer into Harry’s eyes, and it’s honestly the sweetest and most beautiful thing that Harry’s ever seen. “You seem so distant sometimes, lately. Like your thoughts are weighing you down. It makes me worry.”

“Sorry. I’ve just been… really stressed about school. Just wanna get to the part where I can open my own bakery already,” he answers, aiming for lighthearted, and avoiding Zayn’s gaze.

“You will. It’s gonna be amazing,” Zayn says, squeezing his knee through the blanket. “Is that really it though? I feel like there’s more…”

“It’s nothing. Promise,” he adds firmly, dimpling at Zayn to sell it. “What about you? Found yourself a nice girl to settle down with?” Harry asks, swerving the conversation away from his own inner drama, though he’s also genuinely, perhaps masochistically, very interested in the answer.

Zayn hesitates, like he doesn’t want to let it go, brow still furrowed, but he just sighs and gives in to Harry’s maneuver. Another victory for the dimples.

“No,” he answers, grimacing thoughtfully. “I dunno, I just feel… unsure, lately.” He sighs again, and looks back at Harry. It twists his heartstrings to see the tightness in the corners of the other boy’s eyes and mouth, like he’s been stressing a lot too. More than Harry thought he was, and he hates to see that insecurity on Zayn’s face. _Hates_ it.

“What, you don’t think you’ll find someone?” Harry asks in disbelief. “Zayn, do you know what you look like? You probably have every possible option available to you. And you’re like… the greatest. Any bird would be lucky to have you!”

“It’s not that,” he mumbles, though his lips twitch, just shy of a smirk, before he sobers up again. “I just–I’ve been wondering, lately, if it maybe… doesn’t have to be a bird,” he finishes, shifting nervously as he tries to get it all out.

Harry blinks.

“Doesn’t have to be a bird,” he repeats dumbly. “Like…”

“Like a bloke, Harry,” Zayn says, jutting his chin out resolutely. “Maybe it could be a bloke.”

“Oh.” _Oh_. “Right, of course.” _Fuck_. “Wow, Zayn.” _Shit_. “That's really big!” he gets out, finally recovering a bit. Because Zayn is so clearly uncomfortable, and in need of reassurance, and Harry can put aside his own thoughts and feelings, which are spinning out over this revelation, to take care of his friend. “That’s cool. How do you feel about that?” he asks more confidently, smiling at Zayn encouragingly.

“Okay. I mean, I don’t have a problem with it, of course,” he says uncertainly, “but it’s kind of scary, I guess. Feels kinda weird.”

“Ya, of course. It’s a lot to figure out,” he says, his turn to squeeze Zayn’s knee through the blanket, though he’s unsure about showing physical affection right now. Comforting Zayn is the most important thing, he tells himself. “It can feel really overwhelming to think of going out and doing something about it, or coming out to people. I was terrified.”

“You were? I know we’ve never really talked about it…”

“Ya, I was. It felt like my whole life was going to change, and I didn’t want it to. I didn’t understand why _I_ had to be, like, different. Why _I_ had to come out, and go through all that. But I’m so much happier in my life now, living it openly the way I want to,” he goes on. “That doesn’t mean you have to though. You don’t have to do anything at all, just cuz you think you might be… whatever.”

Zayn hums, pulling blades of grass out of the ground with his hand and playing with them distractedly, probably trying to process everything. Harry knows how he feels, his mind racing ahead of itself while he tries to stay relaxed and supportive.

“What made you think…?” he continues, trying to coax Zayn into talking it out more.

“I mean,” Zayn finally answers, “it’s not like I’m suddenly checking out every bloke I see, or that I’m desperate for it all of a sudden. But I’ve been catching myself… noticing more,” he says quietly, glancing up at Harry, who gives him another reassuring smile. “That’s why I don’t know, exactly. Maybe I’m just curious, and if I tried it…”

“Maybe. It’s okay not to know though. You can always experiment, if you want. See if you like it. But there’s no rush to figure it out, and you don’t have to feel pressured to.”

“Thanks, Haz,” Zayn says, finally looking up properly, eyes crinkling warmly as they lock with Harry’s, and he squeezes Harry’s knee again. “I knew you’d help.”

“What I’m here for,” he agrees, dimpling brightly, before picking up a strawberry and biting into it, the picnic having gone neglected for too long, he thinks.

Zayn looks at him intently for a few more seconds, before also reaching for a strawberry. Harry leans back on his hands, looking up at the sky, pretending he’s a cloud drifting weightlessly for a moment.

~

A couple days after the picnic, they end up in the studio again, Zayn getting started on the third piece of his term project, and Harry getting a head start on studying for finals. It’s still only early November, but that means finals are only a month away, he reasons, and they’ll be here sooner than he cares to think about.

He slams his textbook shut and bangs his head down onto it, letting out a groan. He feels more than sees Zayn’s presence beside him, coming over and scratching his fingers through Harry’s hair, causing him to let out a low hum in satisfaction.

“Did you just get paint in my hair?” he mumbles, unable to care all that much either way right now.

“Yep,” Zayn says, and he can hear the other boy’s smirk. That more than anything gets him to raise his head, huffing as he bats Zayn’s hand away, though really, that’s more to do with keeping up appearances than not wanting him playing with his hair, paint regardless.

“How’s your work coming along then?” he asks, getting up and bumping Zayn playfully as he moves towards his easel.

“Good,” Zayn says, scratching the back of his neck, his grey, paint-stained shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of golden-brown skin, that certainly doesn’t make Harry’s mouth go a bit dry as he quickly diverts his eyes to the painting.

It’s still far from done, but the general impression is already there, and there’s a reference photo tapped up on the easel above the canvas.

It’s a photo that Zayn took with Harry’s camera, that day at the park. They stayed until the sun was going down, and Zayn picked up the camera to capture the colours of the sky and the darkening trees.

The canvas is blocked out with patches of pink and orange blending together for the sky, yellow and brown and blue for the fall trees and grass, an air of peace to the whole thing, though it's just base coats at this point, lacking definition or depth still. It takes Harry’s breath away.

“It’s gonna be amazing,” he says lightly, still overwhelmed and unbelieving that Zayn chose this day, this moment they shared, to represent, to include in a series about _longing_ , even though he’s had hours to process it by now.

He’s trying not to read anything into it, firmly reminding himself that it would just be wishful thinking, that it’s probably just what they talked about that made this moment significant for Zayn. Still though…

“Thanks, babe.”


	4. mixed media

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is smut and drinking/drunkenness in this chapter, though they’ve only had a couple drinks and are relatively sober when the smut occurs. Take care!

Something has definitely shifted, Harry’s sure of it. He’s just not sure exactly what.

They’re at Harry’s place, a small loft-style apartment with a nice kitchen near the front, separated only by an island from the rest of the apartment, which is vaguely split into a living area and a bedroom area.

They're a little wine drunk and a lot ignoring the fact that finals are just over a couple weeks away, just taking the night to relax and enjoy themselves, to blow off some steam.

In the weeks since the picnic, they haven’t really spoken more about what Zayn confessed to him, but it’s like there’s this new unspoken _thing_ between them, this private shared knowledge.

It manifested itself in side glances to each other when the lads urged Zayn to go off with the girl who was making eyes at him from the bar. And again when they were teasing him about being too pretty and irresistible for his own good, when a bloke hit on him a few nights later and he politely declined, cheeks tinged with pink. He'd mumbled a bashful retort to their gleeful ribbing, and glanced at Harry before quickly looking away again.

And it filled innocent moments between them with awkwardness, when the lads made their typical jokes about how domestic and settled down the two of them act, like an old married couple, or when Zayn called him babe after Harry had brought him freshly baked treats, and it felt like maybe they are a little too domestic for platonic friends.

Needless to say, Harry’s been struggling to adjust to the new situation, to figure out how to be friends, and be their usual selves, when it feels now like he might actually have a chance at everything he wants.

It was Zayn’s idea, really. He'd just bought the tattoo gun and wanted to try it out, so he brought it over, along with everything he needed to make sure it was sterile and safe. After a couple glasses of red, it felt like a pretty great idea.

Right now, Harry’s chalking that up to poor judgement.

Not because he doesn’t like his new tattoo. He loves the “Might as well…” he has on his hip now, loves that it’s Zayn’s neat handwriting on his skin, loves that Zayn has a matching “DON’T THINK I WON’T…” on his hip, in Harry’s more crooked handwriting.

But having Zayn so close to him, holding his waist with a rubber gloved hand and working the ink into his skin, the pleasurable sting, it really tested Harry’s ability to conceal the full effect that Zayn has on him. And doing Zayn’s was just as bad, having him pliant underhand, and watching the way he winced and his eyelashes fluttered as Harry worked on him.

This definitely falls under the category of things that feel too intimate to be purely platonic, not when there’s the slight chance, and the fantasy of more clouding Harry’s perception of the whole thing.

Harry realizes that Zayn is hard as they stand admiring each other’s work, and that kills the last of his resolve, making him instantly stiff as well. He makes eye contact with the other boy, who looks kind of awkward, blushing and ducking his face away.

“Sorry, I… I haven’t gotten off in a while. I’m just sensitive, I guess,” he mumbles. Harry hums, unable to speak, his throat fully dry.

“I could…” and he knows he shouldn’t go there, that he’s crossing a major line, but he can’t help himself from continuing, “help you with that. Like, I know I’m a bloke, obviously, and you’re not really sure about all that yet. But you could see what it’s like… if you want. I don’t mind.”

Zayn stares at him for ages, and Harry can’t tell what he’s thinking. He’s ready to take it all back, to go crawl into a hole and die, because he knows he's just fucked everything up, when Zayn finally speaks.

“Okay,” he says evenly, letting out a deep breath, and Harry just blinks at him, stunned. _Shit._ He wasn't expecting that at all.

He searches Zayn’s face for confirmation that he’s serious, that he knows what he’s doing. Zayn nods at him, and gives him a little reassuring smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, already dark with intent.

“Okay.”

Harry steps closer, slowly reaching for Zayn, giving him the chance to change his mind, but he doesn’t, and so Harry palms him through his athletic shorts. It gets him to groan.

When he sees that Zayn is into it, he goes further, pushing him against the wall next to the couch, where they had sat leaning back to do the tattoos, and then pulls the other boy’s shorts and pants down in one shot, just enough to expose how hard he is already.

He spits on his hand, making eye contact again as he does, dark eyes staring heavily back at him, and wastes no more time in taking hold of Zayn, solid weight in his hand, and tugging gently. Zayn lets out a gasp.

“ _Harry_ , fuck,” he groans, and honestly, that’s all Harry needs to really get into it, the sound of his own name on Zayn’s tongue, full of heat and desire that he can pretend is entirely for him, and not just the heat of the moment. So he continues, setting a steady pace to get the other boy off.

Zayn pants and moans as Harry strokes him in smooth motions, putting his hand on Harry’s shoulder and the other grasping the back of Harry’s neck, to hold them close and steady, foreheads pressing together as they both look down to watch what Harry’s doing.

Their breath is warm and heavy between them, and Harry revels in it, trying to make it the best experience Zayn’s ever had, and also to appreciate it fully, if it’s the only time he’ll ever get to do this.

It doesn’t take long for Zayn to spill out all over Harry’s hand, pumping into it himself now and groaning deeply, grip tightening on Harry’s neck and shoulder.

When he’s done, slowly coming down and trying to catch his breath, Harry let’s go of him, pulling away just a bit. He knows he shouldn’t, that he’s testing the limits, but he brings his hand up to his mouth and starts to lick up the mess, locking eyes with the other boy, face still only inches away, while Zayn curses under his breath, and stares.

He’s still holding on to Harry, legs visibly shaking from the orgasm, but he reaches for Harry, who’s still rock hard, with the hand that was on his shoulder, and single-handedly maneuvers to free him from his sweats and pants as well.

“Zayn, you really don’t have to,” he says, though it pains him to do so in his current state of arousal. But this has already been a lot, and he doesn’t want Zayn to do anything he's not comfortable with.

Zayn ignores him though, taking hold of Harry and tentatively tugging, mimicking the way Harry had done to him before, and Harry can’t help the whimper that escapes his lips. Zayn’s eyes snap up to his face at that, from where they were focused on what his hand is doing, and the corners of his mouth twitch up smugly.

He seems more confident after that, refocusing on the job at hand, and stroking Harry in slow, rhythmic motions that have him squirming and whining and moaning, much to Zayn’s amusement it seems.

“This is exactly how I would have imagined you, Haz. Just begging for it,” he says, their heads still pressed together, kept in place by the firm hand on Harry’s neck. He just moans in response, and Zayn continues. “Yeah, come on, babe. Come for me,” he whispers, and that’s all it takes for Harry to start spurting.

Zayn keeps holding on to him as he comes down, squeezing his neck and murmuring comforts.

He lets go, however, once Harry’s breathing has returned to normal, pulling up his shorts and patting Harry’s shoulder absently, before heading to the bathroom, still in Harry’s line of sight. He pulls up his own sweatpants as he watches Zayn wash the mess off his hand, and he can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment, as well as apprehension.

Zayn is silent afterwards, kind of withdrawn as they get themselves glasses of water from the kitchen, not making eye contact, and Harry’s terrified now.

“Listen, Zayn, maybe we shouldn’t have done that. Like, I know it’s… this doesn’t have to mean anything, and we can just pretend it never happened, if you want.” He sighs, and adds, “I’m sorry, I… I just want us to be okay.”

He hates the insecurity he can hear in his own voice, but if Zayn decides he’s actually _not_ okay with this, and it ruins everything, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He never should have offered to do that, never should have gone there.

At least he’s gotten Zayn to look at him properly though.

“Ba–Harry, it’s fine. We’re fine, I promise. I just need to think a bit, okay?”

Harry stares at him, eyes wide, and nods.

~

Harry doesn’t normally feel jealous of Zayn and Louis’ friendship, because he knows that he has parts of Zayn that Louis doesn’t, that he’s the one Zayn always turns to first for comfort, or when he needs to talk something through.

He feels guilty for even thinking like that, but it makes him feel important and – in the deeper, hidden parts of his psyche that he seldom lets himself visit – like his longing isn’t totally unfounded, or unrequited. Like he’s special to Zayn.

Really, it’s wonderful that Zayn and Louis are close. Zayn should be surrounded by people who love him and make him happy. So why should Harry be bothered?

It’s just that, _normally_ , Harry’s the one who gets the lion’s share of Zayn’s attention – and he preens for that attention, lives for it. But Zayn’s been glued to Louis’ side all night, the two of them whispering to each other and laughing, and going out for smokes periodically. And he hates himself for it, but he _is_ jealous.

Zayn did squeeze the back of his neck reassuringly when he got here, eyes crinkling warmly at him, and that had been a whole other kind of hell, sending a wave of arousal crashing through him as it evoked the last time Zayn had his hands on him, just the day before. But that was the most they’ve interacted all night, and Harry is going _crazy_.

If Zayn goes off with some bird tonight, Harry might actually lose his mind. Though Zayn is far too decent to do that to him, he thinks, before he and Harry have talked about what happened, and when the feel and look and sound of Zayn as he comes is still so fresh in Harry’s mind. Zayn’s not careless like that.

Once he’s had enough of not being the centre of attention, of Zayn’s attention, to be specific, Harry decides he’s going to drink his cares away, starting with ordering a round of tequila shots for the table, to boisterous cheers, and knocking his back fervently. He chases that quickly with two more.

Satisfied that he’s well underway to getting pissed, he then switches to a fruity cocktail, nursing on it as he laughs hysterically with Niall. Zayn gives him an odd look when their eyes meet by accident, eyebrows scrunching at him, brooding, but Harry ignores him.

Two can play at that game, he thinks… he’s never pretended he isn’t petty.

It takes about two hours, from what he can tell, though it feels like no time at all, and he is truly, exquisitely shit-faced. The whole bar has gone blurry and glimmery, and he feels kind of weightless, but the heavy kind when you’re in water.

Niall’s off at the bar, chatting up some bird, and Liam and Louis are in the midst of a yelling match about something that Harry doesn’t really know, and honestly doesn’t care much to. Zayn is giggling next to Louis, crinkled eyes and tongue poking between his teeth, face lit up and tipsy, carelessly amused it seems.

Harry’s still ignoring Zayn, leaning back against the wall with his legs up on the bench of their booth, his side empty since Niall abandoned them, his sheer shirt pooling open to expose his sweaty chest, butterfly and sparrow tattoos shining in the dingy, yellow light of the bar. Left to his own devices by the others, and too drunk to contribute much anyway, he just chills in his corner, intent on returning Zayn’s disinterest.

Except that he’s been staring at Zayn this whole time, he suddenly realizes, brain scrambling in confusion to figure out when and how that happened, when he’d been so sure that he was thoroughly ignoring the other boy.

Zayn meets his gaze at that moment, and gives him a searching once over, and a slight quirk of his lips, which, honestly, Harry doesn’t even know where to begin with _that_.

“Lads, I think it’s time for Haz here to call it a night,” Zayn says, cutting into the argument still raging on, and Louis coos teasingly when he looks over at Harry sprawled out across from them. “I’ll get him home,” Zayn continues, sliding out of the booth easily since he was sitting on the outside, farthest away from Harry. “I’m knackered anyway.”

He comes around the booth and holds out his hands for Harry to take, helping him up, and Harry doesn’t really want to move, but this is also the most attention Zayn has given him all night, so he goes willingly, only huffing a little bit.

If he were sober, he’d probably be a lot more cautious right now, but as it is, his inhibitions are low, and he’s tired and tipsy and achy, and all he wants to do his fall into Zayn, latch onto his sturdy frame and absorb some of his warmth. So he does.

He wraps his arms around Zayn’s trunk and tucks his face into the crook of Zayn’s neck, snuffling in satisfaction when he’s settled. Zayn is stiff for a moment, but his inhibitions must also be low right now, because he relaxes into it quickly, wrapping a protective arm over Harry’s shoulder.

Harry’s in too much of a blissful stupor to say goodbye to the others as he’s guided steadily towards the exit, but Zayn takes care of it, calling out farewells over his shoulder. They’re seen off with catcalls that Harry barely registers, and certainly doesn’t care to dwell on.

~

It’s been a week since the _second_ tattoo incident, as Harry’s coined it, again none too creatively. And if the night out with the lads was painful, Zayn’s been avoiding him completely ever since. It’s been absolute torture.

Zayn had gotten him home from the bar that night, like he said he would. Though not before they stopped for burgers and chips, at Harry’s insistence, Zayn calling him a pest but indulging him anyway.

They barely spoke as they ate, and then spent the Uber ride to Harry’s much the same, but it hadn’t felt that uncomfortable, not as far as Harry could tell in his drunken state.

He’d been sobering up a bit by the time they made it back to his, but Zayn still came up and put him to bed, making him drink a glass of water before carefully pulling off his shoes and helping him out of his skinnies, and then tucking him in.

The memory of that night is fuzzy, everything coming back in flashes, but he remembers how warm and content he felt as Zayn took care of him, and the second wave of it when he woke up and found another glass of water and some Advil on his bedside.

And then nothing. He hasn’t seen or heard from Zayn since he shut the door on his way out that night. He can feel himself slowly going out of his mind, desperate for the comfort of Zayn, for his attention and care, and just to know that he’s okay, that he doesn’t hate Harry.

And he knows that maybe he should give Zayn his space, give him a chance to process what happened and forget about it, so that they can go back to normal. But he’s _desperate_ , so he’s going to find Zayn at the studio, where Louis said he’ll be this afternoon.

He didn’t invite Harry, and he tries not to read too much into that, but it’s hard not to be worried, not to take it as a rejection when Zayn has never neglected him like this, hasn’t gone more than a few days without reaching out since the day they met.

He barges into the studio maybe a bit too forcefully, stumbling a little over his own feet and flailing a bit to right himself, as he finally locks eyes with Zayn, the other boy just looking up and blinking, bemused at the dramatic entrance.

“Haz,” he drawls, more of a question than a statement or greeting. But okay, that’s good at least. Maybe things aren’t too catastrophic, if Zayn’s still calling him that.

“Hi,” he answers, and then, “can I stay?”

Zayn’s face softens at the uncertainty in Harry’s voice, the shakiness so painfully loud as he speaks.

“Babe, of course you can… I would never kick you out,” he says, sighing. “I’m sorry I haven’t spoken to you, I’ve just been trying to sort everything out, ya know? I’m sorry I made you feel like I was abandoning you.”

“It’s okay, I get it,” Harry mumbles, looking away uncomfortably, always amazed at how well Zayn understands him.

“It’s not. And, I’m not… abandoning you, okay? I promise,” Zayn insists, eyes boring into Harry’s, all stress furrows and intensity. He looks devastating, as always.

“Okay,” he says, lips twitching up involuntarily at the warm grin spreading Zayn’s face. _God_ , he’s missed that.

Zayn opens his arms up, and that’s all Harry needs, flinging himself across the space to burrow into the warmth and comfort of the other boy, the feeling of support, of _home_. He missed it so much, even if it’s just been a week.

“So what are you working on, then,” he asks, straightening himself out when they separate.

“Fourth piece… doing a mixed media sort of thing,” Zayn answers, gesturing towards the easel, though he seems sort of reticent to get closer.

“Is it okay if I look?” he asks, stalling to give the other boy the chance to decide. Zayn hesitates for a moment, and then nods.

“Ya,” he says, resolutely, as if he’s steeling himself, and Harry doesn’t know what to make of these apparent nerves.

It just makes him even more curious though, approaching the easel to get a closer look, glancing at Zayn one last time to make sure he’s okay. He smiles sweetly at Harry, though he still seems nervous, and nudges him forward.

Harry gasps when he finally gets a good look at it.

Zayn’s working with watercolours at the moment, from the looks of it, painting abstractly in pink and green, purple and red, yellow and orange, all the colours from the previous pieces creating a strange, surreal sunrise on the canvas.

Beneath that, there are lines of gold and brown ink swirling in vines across the piece, ending in leaves sometimes, a flower, a birdcage, and other familiar figures. Tattoos, he realizes, stunned. _Their_ tattoos.

Those lines are drawn over and around a collage of handwritten lines of text, black ink on parchment paper, arranged and pasted purposefully across the canvas. He has to get even closer to see them clearly.

The first one he reads says, “Am I a fool / Waiting for you? / What if you never come back?” The next one, “I don't want you to be the one that got away / I wanna get addicted to you.” And then, “Somewhere out there there's a path that we chose / There's a life that we share, there's a love and it grows.” Another one, off in a corner, says, “Cause we are who we are when no one's watching.”

The last one he reads says, “I want you here with me / Like how I pictured it,” and he can feel himself shaking, aggressively, but he can’t be bothered to care if Zayn sees at this point.

What gets him the most, what has his mind in a full tailspin, and what he can’t keep his eyes from jumping back to as he scans everything else, is the photograph pasted at the centre of it all. It’s one they took right after they did their hip tattoos, right before everything else happened.

In it, they’re standing side by side, in front of the mirror next to Harry’s closet, his bed on one side and the couch on the other, because his apartment is tiny. They’re shirtless, arms slung around each other, and Harry can remember the warm, slightly sweaty feel of Zayn’s skin sticking to him in that moment, and in the one after that. The sweat makes their skin and tattoos glisten, and he can see the fresh redness around the ones on their hips.

Zayn’s the one taking the picture on his phone, grinning at the camera through the mirror, eyes crinkled nearly shut, while Harry looks at Zayn. The expression on his face is almost painful, too intimate and full of adoration to look at from the outside, he thinks, even for himself.

Zayn hadn’t shown him this photo before, but he can’t believe he let himself be caught out like that, on _camera_ , his defenses seemingly vanished into thin air to leave his heart wide open, on display for anyone, for _Zayn_ , to see.

“Wow,” he finally croaks, feeling like he might pass out any second, unable to process what this all could mean, what strange dream state he must have fallen into on his way here. “I, um,” he squeaks, “this is… amazing…”

“Thanks, babe.”


	5. comic

“Harry.”

Zayn almost whispers it, staring at him warily, and Harry swallows. His throat is dry and his whole body feels too hot.

They’ve been like this for what feels like forever, wordlessly looking at one another, the silence charged and tense between them. Harry knows it all has to go somewhere, to release or explode or disperse. He’s just not sure he’s ready for that, might want to stay frozen in this moment forever.

He’s scared, if he's being honest. This is it. A moment that could change their paths and their whole relationship. He knows it.

He takes a deep breath, in and out.

“Zayn, what is this?” he asks, gesturing at the piece. “Cuz I… I don’t…”

He purses his lips to one side and looks down at the floor, unable to make eye contact, or continue, when he’s terrified of being rejected. Of Zayn telling him this doesn’t mean what he’s thinking.

“Harry,” Zayn repeats, more insistently. “Harry, please tell me you feel– I know I’m all over the place, avoiding you all week and then this, but,” he stalls, grunting in frustration, “I’ve never _felt_ like this about someone before, and I keep thinking… maybe you feel it too.”

It’s all Harry can do to keep his knees from buckling, to keep breathing, when it feels like his chest is hammering him into the floor.

“I feel like I’m going crazy,” Zayn goes on, looking fixedly at the ground instead of Harry. “I know it was maybe just experimenting, just getting off with a friend for you, what we did the other night. Like, it’s maybe not anything new or special for you. But it meant so much to me. You’re all I can think about. Since way before we even did that.”

He looks back up then, smiling tentatively at Harry, though his eyes are wide and searching.

“Please say something, Haz,” he adds, when Harry does nothing but stare at him dumbly.

Part of him is still afraid to believe what he’s hearing, after wanting it for so long. Afraid to wake up from this beautiful daydream, another little heartbreak that could be the one to ruin him.

Part of him wants to ask if Zayn is serious, just to check. But no. Zayn would never do that to him.

No, this is _real_.

Harry swallows, his heart ready to explode into chunks, and hesitates a moment longer before finally speaking.

“So when you said you were… noticing more?”

“I meant you,” Zayn answers slowly, scratching the back of his neck, and then dropping his hand. “It’s like everything gravitates to you, when you’re around. Even when you’re not. And I just,” he pauses, sighing, “ _want_ everything. With you.”

He keeps glancing up as he speaks, eyes barely making contact, and Harry just wants to take all of the other boy’s doubts away, wrap him up in his arms and keep him safe.

“You always seem to know what I’m feeling,” he says, practically whispering. “You _have_ to know that you’re all I can think about too… I’ve wanted this for so long. For you to feel the same way. For you to say these things to me…”

Zayn’s eyes go bright and warm as Harry speaks, crinkles appearing around them as he smiles, so happily, and _god_. What Harry wouldn’t do to keep that there forever.

“I–I’m so in love with you, Zayn. I can’t handle how much,” Harry continues, inching closer. Zayn mirrors him, so he lets himself fall into the other boy’s arms.

He doesn’t know when he started crying, but he is, eyes wet and breath shaky as he clings on urgently.

“Haz,” Zayn murmurs, pulling back and taking Harry’s face in his hands, wiping the tears from his cheeks with his thumbs, and then peppering kisses over his eyes and temple and nose. “I love you too,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together. “I love you.”

Harry can’t hold back the choked sob then, of relief and joy, crying in earnest now as Zayn pulls him into a tighter embrace.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into Harry’s hair. “I’m so sorry, babe. I wish I’d figured it out sooner,” he soothes, his own voice cracking.

“I don’t care,” Harry breathes, nuzzling into his neck. “I’m just happy that we’re here.”

“Me too.”

Zayn holds on to him until his breath evens out, and he feels like he can hold himself up again. Though he doesn’t go far when they pull apart, running his hand down Harry’s back and leaving it there, as Harry turns to look at the fourth piece again.

“It really is beautiful, Zayn. I can’t believe it,” he says. “Not that it’s beautiful! Just that you made this one about me. About us,” he rushes out, blushing when Zayn raises an eyebrow at him, lips twitching.

“They’ve always been about us. All of them,” Zayn murmurs, running his hand up Harry’s spine again to squeeze the back of his neck.

The words make his skin warm, while the touch sends a shock through his system. And that’s going to be a problem, he thinks, how sensitive he is to the other boy already.

“So does this mean you’ve sorted the whole sexuality thing then?” he asks, to distract from the heat he can feel staining his cheeks and neck, but he thinks Zayn notices anyway, if the little smirk he gives Harry is any indication. Smug bastard.

“Nah, like, I haven’t figured it all out yet,” Zayn says, humming thoughtfully. “I mean, I’m into you. In every way. But I don't know about other blokes, or what that makes me.”

“Well that’s okay,” Harry says, scratching the scruff of Zayn’s jaw. “You don’t have to. As long as you’re not freaking out about it.”

“No, I’m good,” Zayn assures him. “This feels right to me… _you_ feel right. The rest doesn’t matter.”

Harry feels happy butterflies squirming in his belly at Zayn’s words, euphoric and drunk on the other boy, like he might burst at the seams from all that he’s feeling. But he doesn’t feel heavy with it anymore, because he can share it now.

So he does, pressing closer to the other boy, because they’re never too close for his taste.

“I love you,” he whispers, his lips against Zayn’s stubbly cheek. It may be too early to tell, but he doesn't think he’ll ever get tired of saying that.

Their noses bump together as Zayn turns his face more towards him.

“I love you too,” he breathes into the warm space between them, resting their foreheads together.

And then his lips are on Harry’s for the first time, tasting of spearmint, and faintly of smoke, and of _Zayn_. And they’re kissing, softly and tentatively, learning one more thing about one another.

~

In the couple of weeks that follow, Harry feels like he’s floating.

They haven’t told anyone yet, Zayn needing more time to get comfortable with the idea, and both of them wanting to keep this new, incredible thing in their lives just between the two of them for a little while, before sharing it with everyone.

It’s also that they’ve been really busy with finals, the two of them opting to hole up together while they get all their work and studying done, to keep any spare moments they have just for each other. They’ve barely seen anyone, except for when they go to their classes or exams.

They’ve gone out on a few dates, when they could spare some time, which looked a lot like their outings always have, just with more hand-holding and kissing and exchanging shy smiles. But mostly they’ve just stayed at Harry’s, where they can get some privacy, or gone to the studio so Zayn can work on his pieces.

Honestly, they’ve gotten everything done, and Harry’s confident they’ve both done well, but having the other boy all to himself in his small flat… it’s proven to be quite distracting.

Needless to say, they’ve revisited that night from three weeks ago, and then some.

From slow, thorough nights in bed, using their tongues and hands to explore one another’s skin; to lazy morning handjobs in the shower, exchanging open-mouthed kisses under the hot stream of water, steam wafting up around them; to quick, sloppy blowjobs in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to percolate.

They’ve already mapped their relationship pretty well all over Harry’s flat, and each other’s bodies. And Zayn’s taken it all in stride, excited for the new experiences and always eager to touch, to make each other feel good.

He likes to be in charge a bit, to tell Harry what to do, Harry’s found, though he already kind of knew that. But he’s always gentle and attentive, and Harry knew that too.

Perhaps the jokes and, in the tattoo artist’s case, assumptions about their domesticity hadn’t been so far off the mark, when their relationship has settled so easily from platonic into romantic, and sexual.

But now they’re on their way to Zayn’s, to meet up with the lads and celebrate the end of term, all their exams and course work finally done. It’s the first time they’ve all been together since Zayn and Harry started this, and they’re both a little nervous.

Zayn went to get another tattoo done earlier in celebration, a small bird on his hand. He went to the same artist that did his rib cage, who Harry still hasn’t fully forgiven for the incident, though he hasn’t told Zayn about it, still too embarrassed by the whole thing. He suspects it’s a one-sided feud anyway.

Harry met up with Zayn after, and they grabbed coffees and macaroons to go, from the same place they went to the last time, before starting on their way to Zayn and Louis' flat.

They've been strolling hand in hand and talking, and Zayn's telling him about the appointment. 

“He asked me where my boyfriend was,” he says, glancing at Harry, a small smirk playing on his lips. “I was a little confused, until I realized he meant you. He must have thought we were together when you came with me last time.”

“I know he did,” Harry mumbles, cheeks flushing. “I thought I was going to _die_. You just didn’t notice what was happening, as usual,” he grumbles long-sufferingly, trying to play it off, and Zayn flicks the side of his nose, with the hand not holding Harry’s.

“I set him straight, of course,” Zayn goes on, looking far too smug now. “Told him I was meeting my boyfriend after,” and Harry stumbles over his own feet a little, “because you had to submit your last paper, and also that I love you very much.”

“Boyfriend, is it?” he teases, recovering, though his belly is flipping over happily.

Zayn nods, smirk tugging at the corners of his lips for a moment, before his face goes serious.

“I know it’s only been a couple weeks, but it feels right, doesn’t it?” he asks. “Make it official and all. Especially if we’re about to tell the lads.” 

Harry hums, pouting his lips.

“I suppose so,” he agrees, before dimpling at Zayn, and then, “Are you ready? We don’t need to tell them right away.”

“No, I’m ready. I want to. I don’t want to be beside you, and not be able to touch you, or show how I feel,” Zayn says. “It’s not like they’re gonna be bad about it…”

Harry pulls them both to a stop, a little overwhelmed by Zayn’s words, and wraps his arms around the other boy’s trunk, burying his face in the crook of his neck. Zayn just hums and wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders, pressing a kiss into his hair.

“They’re not,” he mumbles into Zayn’s skin.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, can’t be bothered to move when he’s never been comfier, though finally they disentangle and continue on their way, hands keeping them from straying too far apart.

It’s pretty telling that none of the lads bat an eye when they walk in holding hands, Harry thinks ruefully, nor when they squeeze into the armchair together, everyone settling in with their containers of Chinese takeout, from Zayn’s favourite place. All they get is the typical ‘lovebirds’ quip from Louis, though there’s something a little too knowing in it, and really, who was Harry kidding before?

He can’t believe he ever thought that there was nothing more between them, or that the other boy couldn’t feel the same way he did. It’s amazing, really, that he spent so much time pining and never even suspected, or caught on to the hints that Zayn was dropping, he thinks, shaking his head at himself.

Though, to be fair, it’s not like Zayn actually knew what was going on either, for the most part.

He looks into the other boy’s eyes, bringing himself back into the moment. Zayn smiles softly back at him before leaning in, almost reflexively, and pecking his lips affectionately.

That does get a reaction.

“What’s going on here then,” Louis demands, over Liam and Niall clamoring out their own intrigue, though he looks more amused, or even smug, than confused.

“I thought you wanted to tell them, not show them,” Harry mumbles to Zayn, blushing profusely under all the attention.

“Couldn’t help myself. You’re _irresistible_ , remember?” Zayn shrugs, grinning at him, and Harry positively melts at that, getting lost in the other boy’s gaze once again.

“Oi!” Louis kicks at Zayn's knee to get their attention back.

“Right, so… I guess I–we’ve got something to tell you, lads,” Zayn says, scratching the back of his head nervously. Harry squeezes his thigh in comfort, and Zayn casts him a grateful look, before squaring himself towards the others.

“I’ll say,” Niall chimes in this time, though he grins at them.

“It’s about time, innit?” Louis drawls, which earns him a sticky piece of General Tao chicken to the face, courtesy of Zayn. He squawks indignantly as it leaves a smear of sauce on his cheek, and then plops down onto the floor.

Harry just sighs.

“You knew?” he asks Louis, leaning around Zayn a bit to look at him.

“Not that this happened,” Louis concedes, gesturing between Harry and Zayn, “though I suspected, when Zayn disappeared over to your place for two whole weeks,” he adds, kicking at Zayn again. “But who do you think had to hear him moaning and waxing poetic about you all these months?”

“I wasn’t _waxing poetic_ ,” Zayn grumbles.

“No, it was just: ‘I like him so much, I’m so confused! Did you see how tired he looked today? I hope he’s eating okay. Do you think I’m so obsessed with him because I’m arse over tit in love with him, or is that just platonic?’ Twenty-four seven.”

Louis’ doing a mock impression of Zayn as he speaks, and it lands him another projectile glob of chicken. Louis scowls, though he can’t quite conceal his glee at having embarrassed Zayn, who’s looking thoroughly mortified.

Harry’s not doing much better, his cheeks flushed with warmth, and his heart fluttering excitedly, to know that Zayn was fretting and pining just as much as he was.

He leans in closer and rubs his nose affectionately against Zayn’s scruff, and the other boy turns his head, crinkling his eyes at him softly.

“So, are you two proper together then?” Liam asks, when it’s clear this exchange isn’t going to get them anywhere.

“Yep,” Zayn says, popping the last letter. “This pest is all mine.”

“Heeey,” Harry pouts at him, though he can't say that he actually minds.

Zayn just nudges him playfully, while the others congratulate them, and the rest of the evening goes on more or less as usual.

~

A few nights later, they’re lying in Zayn’s bed. Harry’s head is pillowed on Zayn’s chest, and he has an arm and a leg thrown over the other boy as well, while Zayn holds him close with both arms.

The comforter is pulled up around them snugly because it’s cold out, though Zayn’s body heat alone is doing wonders to keep Harry warm. It’s really great that Zayn’s just as cuddly as he is, he thinks, though he’d already known that. It’s perfect. 

They’re both leaving to go back home the next morning, and Harry wants to make the best of tonight, knows he’s going to miss his boyfriend desperately.

And god, he can’t get over calling him that. His _boyfriend_.

They’ve always been attached to one another, of course, ever since they met. But this newfound level of intimacy has only exacerbated the clinginess he feels.

He’d be embarrassed if Zayn wasn’t just as bad.

He turns his head a bit and brushes his lips and nose against Zayn’s pec, nuzzling into his chest, and Zayn hums agreeably in response, still blissed out from their last round it seems.

They’ve made an effort to stay quiet when they’re at Zayn’s, conscious of Louis just across the hall. But Harry has a hard time containing himself, swallowing his whines and moans through giggles and heavy kisses, while Zayn just smirks and tries to draw them out of him.

They’ve already received a formal, written complaint from Louis about the volume of their ‘recreational bedroom activities’, as he'd put it, though Zayn just called him a little shit and reminded him that he’s heard plenty too, coming from Louis’ room.

“Oh! Let me show you the last piece,” Zayn exclaims suddenly, nudging at Harry to move. He huffs in response, and flops onto his back, limbs splayed across the mattress. Zayn pokes his cheek as he sits up, grinning down at him fondly. “Just give me a sec,” he says, getting up and slipping on a discarded pair of pants, before disappearing out his bedroom door.

“Those are mine,” Harry calls after him, though he just does it to be annoying. Zayn, fairly, ignores him.

“Prof finished grading and said I could get them back,” he says, walking back in with his portfolio. “I left the others at the studio, but I wanted to show you this one, since you didn’t see it before. Slipped my mind earlier.”

Harry had been there while Zayn was working on his final piece, but the other boy had said he didn’t want Harry to see it until he was done, and he seemed embarrassed about it so Harry had let it go, not pressing any further to get a look.

He’s very excited to see it now though, finally getting into an upright position, the covers pooling around his waist, and the displeasure from moments ago at having to move from Zayn’s embrace all but forgotten.

“It’s a little different from the other ones,” Zayn admits, looking shy as he pulls a large piece of thick paper out of the portfolio.

“Zayn, you know I love all your work. It’s always amazing,” Harry says, pushing forward in bed to get closer to the other boy. Zayn just gives him a small smile, and then flips the sheet over so Harry can see.

It is kind of different from the previous pieces, though no less interesting to Harry, or impressive. It looks like the cover of one of Zayn’s comics, more representational than the other pieces were.

The background of the illustration is filled in with a detailed, monochromatic grey cityscape, and “Sour Diesel” is printed in red block letters across the top. Standing in the foreground are superhero versions of Zayn and Harry. Or maybe they’re more like vigilantes.

Superhero Zayn is clad in black cargo pants covered in straps, a chiseled chestplate, a brown leather jacket with a harness overtop, black gloves, and black paint around his eyes. He has cropped, blond hair, and a small smear of blood down one side of his mouth, like he’s just been fighting.

Superhero Harry is in all black; tight pants, a hoodie with straps around the waist and arms, the hood thrown back, his curls windswept, and a face mask pulled down around his neck.

They’re face to face, lips parted and eyes locked. Zayn has one arm around Harry’s waist and the other holding a lighter off to the side, while Harry leans into Zayn, one arm wrapped around his neck and the other holding a larger knife, in a position mirroring Zayn’s lighter.

They look badass, and it’s so nerdy and cute, and so decidedly _Zayn_ to make them romantic superheroes for his series on longing. Harry can’t brace himself against the magnitude of affection and love he feels for this boy right now, a surge that would knock him off his feet if he weren’t already seated.

He climbs closer and takes the piece out of Zayn’s hands, who just gives him a quizzical look. Harry dimples back at him, before leaning precariously over the edge of the bed to set the sheet down carefully on the ground. He rights himself, and locks eyes with Zayn again.

He grabs Zayn’s waist, and pulls him down onto the bed, holding on tight as the other boy wriggles on top of him, until he finds his lips. Zayn settles easily into the kiss then, his legs bracketing Harry’s hips.

They only break apart when they’ve run out of air, foreheads still pressed together as they pant heavily for oxygen.

“Does that mean you like the piece then?” Zayn teases, and Harry blinks up at him, still dazed.

“Mhm,” he mumbles, reaching up for another kiss and passing the sound between their mouths. “S’my favourite. You’re my favourite,” he says with another kiss. “It looks so cool.”

When they break apart again, Zayn grins down at him, eyes crinkling.

“Thanks, babe.”


	6. epilogue

Zayn tugs gently on Lily’s leash as she starts to get excited, clearly having picked up a familiar scent nearby.

Indeed, not a moment later they turn a street corner that Zayn’s walked by countless times in the last couple of years, and the bakery comes into view. Zayn quickens his footstep, giving into the puppy’s enthusiasm, as well as his own need.

The bay windows on either side of the entrance gleam in the afternoon light, even though the day is overcast and a little dreary.

As they get closer, he can make out the periwinkle blue, cursive letters that spell out “Weirdough” at the centre of either of the large windows, and he feels that same swell of amusement and pride that he always does. He could still roll his eyes at how ridiculous it is, he thinks, though he’s had time to get used to it.

He picks up the little blue nose pitbull, who wriggles in his arms and licks his face, before opening the door to the bakery. The bell over the door chimes softly as he enters.

“I’ll be right with you,” a voice calls from the back, and Lily is whining and thwacking Zayn’s stomach with her tail, eager to find the source. The place is quiet otherwise, in the after-lunch lull, only a couple of customers sitting in different corners.

It smells of butter and cinnamon and sugar, as well as coffee, and it’s cozy. Pale yellow walls, and little wood tables tucked into the bay windows and along one side of the narrow space. They all have mismatched floral plush chairs tucked around them, the kind to sink right into.

Zayn’s artwork, along with a couple other local artists’, is hung on the walls above the tables, with little name and price tags beneath each one.

The other side of the space is occupied by a large glass display counter full of pastries and cakes, a prep counter with appliances behind that, stacked shelves along the wall above it, and the cash at the far end. There’s an archway behind the cash that leads to the kitchen, which Zayn makes his way towards.

He spent his morning at the studio, trying to finish a commission before the deadline next week, though he was feeling uninspired and frustrated with it, and with himself. He’d have much rather been working on one of his other projects, on the series for the gallery exhibit he’d landed for next month. He's still buzzing and euphoric with excitement, thinking about that. But in the meantime…

He’s been looking forward to this moment all morning, to the familiar peace of the little bakery, and the comfort of his boyfriend’s deep, soothing timbre, as well as his unflappable belief in Zayn’s ability and talent. It anchors him when he feels like he’s spiralling out.

He’d only stopped to pick up Lily from their flat on the way over, knowing she’d be eager for a walk and some attention, since they’d both been gone since breakfast and left her all alone.

Harry beams when he comes out from the back and sees Zayn, and his heart constricts pleasantly in response.

His feelings have changed in the years they’ve been together, settled. No longer the exhilaration and breathlessness of being in love that he felt when they were still only friends, circling each other uncertainly, or when they first got together.

He still gets hits of that, like he does in this moment, but he’s glad it’s calmed down, the feelings less all-consuming and overwhelming than they were at the beginning. They’ve become softer, and deeper. Loving each other easily, with every breath, for all the little ways that they show up for one another.

Lily yaps, and wriggles more vigorously, apparently sharing in Zayn’s elation at seeing the other man before them.

“Baby! I missed you,” Harry coos, striding around the counter and sweeping Lily out of Zayn’s arms, peppering her head with little kisses as she licks his face.

“Hello to you too,” Zayn deadpans, and Harry’s eyes twinkle annoyingly as they meet his.

“Oh sorry, didn’t see you there,” he answers. _Little shit_.

Zayn pokes his stomach in response, while his arms are still too occupied to protect himself, and he flinches away.

“Heeey,” he pouts, though his face immediately breaks into a grin, and Zayn wants to poke him again. “I missed you too,” Harry adds more softly, leaning back in towards him.

Zayn brushes his boyfriend’s cheek, before leaning in as well for a much-needed kiss, grabbing Harry’s hips to hold him in place, though their embrace is obstructed by the puppy pawing at Harry's shoulder and huffing at them.

Harry dimples at him as they pull away, and Zayn’s chest does that thing again. He can already feel the stress of the morning easing away.

“You look great,” he says, teasing as he pats the other man’s chest, though he thinks it comes out too breathless to sound casual.

Harry’s lips twitch in response, fondness written in the lines of his face, a story Zayn never gets tired of reading.

“Thanks, babe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all have enjoyed this! If you’ve made it this far, please let me know what you think. And if you liked this, stayed tuned for more fics soon to come! You can find me at [medicinedrunk](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/medicinedrunk) on Tumblr. All the best x


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